


wanted: rmate w/ a view

by timber (calculus)



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cohabitation, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 09:42:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2768507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calculus/pseuds/timber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not the most ideal situation, sharing a living space with a ghost for a roommate, but Yifan adapts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	wanted: rmate w/ a view

**045.**  
“Pass the popcorn, would you?” asks Kris, eyes glued to the flickering TV screen. The yellow bowl of fresh-popped kettle corn lifts up off the coffee table and floats leisurely over to where Kris is sprawled on the ratty couch. He grunts and lifts out his hand to scoop out a palm-full of popped kernels, but ends up grabbing at thin air. He tries again, still focused on the drama ensuing on the screen, and ends up banging his wrist against the hard edge of a stray textbook laying on the couch next to him.

“Shit!” he yelps, and tears his eyes away finally to glare at the empty space next to him. He gives his hand a perfunctory glance, rubbing it quickly, before reaching over and grabbing the floating bowl of popcorn from mid-air. “Not funny, man.”

A huff of laughter answers him, and he rolls his eyes and turns back to the TV, settling the bowl on his lap. He sits in silence for a few minutes before there’s a brief apologetic brush of cold against the underskin of his wrist. Kris keeps his eyes on the scene of screaming cops and the flailing undertaker, but his lips quirk up.

“Whatever. Just watch the show; Jiaheng’s about to explode the bomb taped to his chest,” says Kris, settling into the couch, a side-glance to the space next to him. Nothing changes, but he can feel it in the air somehow, a glow of amusement and contentment, and he smiles quietly for real, directing his attention back towards the TV screen.

**-**

**023.**  
He’s lathering the shampoo into the wet locks of his hair when the hot stream of water suddenly ekes into a freezing waterfall. There’s a moment of shocked processing, and then Kris shrieks, his normal baritone rising up and cracking unattractively as he scrambles away from the cold blast of water as fast he can.

“ _Baekhyun, you little fucking shit!_ ” he screams, eyes squeezed tightly from the dripping soap in his hair and back wetly pressed against the tiles of his shower stall. “I’m gonna kill you dead again, you fucking dick!”

The only answer is a loud resounding cackling, reverberating in the bathroom, echoes bouncing off the walls, and Kris just screams non-verbally, a cry of abject frustration.

**-**

**039**.  
The eggs sizzle and crackle on the frying pan enticingly, the flamer flickering higher and hotter as Kris turns the dial to medium-high heat and jabs at the opaque whites with a wooden spatula he’d snatched from his mother’s place before the move. The kettle boils on the burner behind the pan, steadily building up steam.

“You want your eggs hard or soft?” asks Kris casually, running the spatula around the edges of the egg whites to make sure it doesn’t stick to the pan. No one answers him, but one of the chairs of the two-seater table in the kitchen pulls out, scraping against the tiles of the floor.

“That’s a yes to soft eggs then?” Kris clarifies, shaking his pan lightly and grabbing a spare pot lid. The chair pushes back in a few inches, and Kris nods to himself, dropping the lid onto the pan and turning down the flame a little. “Get out the mugs for me?”

Two mismatched mugs— one tall brown ceramic mug with the words “World’s Greatest Lover” and one short blue mug with a painted illustration of a cat sitting on a cloud with a cupid’s bow and arrow— float out of a suddenly-opened cupboard near the fridge and land lightly on the wood table surface. The fridge door opens, and the carton of 2% milk hovers up and out a little before shaking in midair slightly, its contents sloshing noisily.

Kris looks up from his blank gaze down at his eggs and stares at the milk carton for a moment. “Oh, yeah, milk. Uhm, not today, I think. I’m just brewing oolong,” he says apologetically. “I can start up some coffee for you though, if you want?”

The milk hovers a moment longer in the air before going back into the fridge, the door closing with a snap. Kris snorts to himself and pops off the pot lid and turns off the burner, checking the solidity of his egg whites and yolk. “Plate?”

A plate comes out of the dish rack and floats toward him, holding its place in the air as Kris slips his cooked eggs onto the surface before placing itself down on the table in the middle. A fork and knife follow after, also plucked from the dish rack, as Kris heads for the cupboard still opened.

“I’m gonna make us some toast too,” he says from over his shoulders, reaching into the third shelf for the toaster. The fridge opens again, and a half-eaten bag of a Pullman loaf pulls out and floats over to the counter by Kris and the toaster. Kris grunts his thanks and untwists the twist-tie keeping the bag sealed and pulls out four white slices of thin-cut bread and plops them unceremoniously into the toaster slots, two in each slot. He turns the dial for a medium toasting and twists the bread bag close. “You want the usual jam and butter? I got some almond butter the other day if you want something new?”

Again, no one responds, but the fork on the table lifts up and taps its prongs twice against the wood. Kris takes it as an affirmative and stows the bread bag securely back into the top shelf of the fridge before heading back towards the open cupboard and pulls out a new container of almond butter and a three-quarters empty jar of marmalade. The chair still pulled out scrapes annoyingly against the floor, and Kris turns back with an exasperated eye-roll.

“Shut up, I like marmalade. It’s sweet and summery, and it reminds me of home.” There’s a sudden laugh, derisive and short, that passes through the air even though the windows are still closed and Kris remains tight-lipped. Kris rolls his eyes again and drops the two jars onto the table and pulls out the other chair from the table to seat himself. “Whatever, so I’m boring. I’ll live, thanks.”

There’s no response, but a slight wind ruffles the messy bed-hair on Kris’ head, and he grins reluctantly. He doesn’t say anything else, but starts dividing up the eggs on the plate with the fork and knife. The toaster signals its completion with a quiet _ding_ and a jump of the toasted slices, and Kris makes to get up before a brief touch on his shoulder presses him back down and the toast slices float out of the toaster and to the table. He murmurs his thanks, holding out a large palm and the toast deposits itself neatly onto his open hand. He scoops up each of the egg halves onto two of the toast pieces and sets them down onto the plate. The other two slices, he lays on the table and reaches for the almond butter and marmalade jars. The jars unscrew themselves, lids popping off, and push over across the table into Kris’ reach.

Kris goes for the almond butter first, taking the knife and scooping out a generous amount and scraping it onto one of the toast slices. The remainder of the butter on the knife he wipes onto the other toast slice, and then sticks it into the jar of marmalade and spreads that gingerly on top. The almond butter slice he passes over across the table, where it’s suddenly picked up, and he shoves the marmalade slice into his own mouth.

The lids lift off the table and screw back onto their respective jars, and Kris watches detachedly as the hovering slice of toast starts disappearing, bite marks appearing in the bread and slowly consuming the entire slice. He chews slowly on his own slice, savoring the sweet citrusy complement of the marmalade over the thicker paste of almond butter.

The kettle takes the chance in this lull of activity to shrilly screech into the open air, angrily steaming out of the steamhole. Kris pushes away from the table, waving away at the empty air in front of him, and turns off the stove. He reaches over to the cabinet directly above the stove and opens the door and pulls out a brown tin of loose-leaf oolong and a tea strainer. He goes back to the table with the still-steaming kettle and tin and strainer and settles back in his seat, setting the kettle down carefully on an open spot on the table. He pries open the metal lid of the tin and draws the first mug closest to him, the blue one with the cat picture, and scoops out two spoonfuls of tea leaves. The other mug pushes itself into his open hand and he nods in acknowledgement and scoops out another two spoonfuls of leaves; these he put into the tea strainer before placing the strainer onto the mug. The lid shuts itself back over the tin and flies back to its original resting place while Kris carefully pours the hot water into both the mugs. He pushes the large one back across the table and gets up to place the kettle back onto the burner.

“So. Dishes are on you today, right?” he says casually, when he’s done. He picks up on one of the egg toast slices, and waits. There’s a slight pause in the air, the distinctive sound of someone huffing petulantly before the fork on the table lifts up again and taps against the table sullenly, prongs digging into the wood. “Hey, you know the rules. Don’t ruin my mother’s table with that attitude.”

The fork sets back down, almost apologetically, and Kris smiles with held-back triumph. He lifts the toast slice to his mouth and parts his lips to slide the bread in, but he feels a slight tremble in the air and looks down to find a large corner of his egg toast already chewed off.

“Damnit, Baekhyun.”

There’s the distinct feeling of someone smirking smugly at him.

**-**

**001.**  
The Craigslist listing advertised a nice 3-room apartment, relatively well-kept _and_ with a working plumbing system, which had been a nice change from the last three places Kris had visited with blocked toilets and sludge water running in the faucets. It boasted a brilliant view of the city skyline, a particularly breathtaking sunset view from its living room windows—unusually spacious for a concrete building squeezed in between the cracks of likewise apartment buildings. And it was a manageable distance from his campus and surrounded by local restaurants, which was good because most days after classes, Kris just wants to fall face-first onto the nearest flat surface and pass out, not stay up even longer to cook himself sustenance to keep his body going.

The cherry on top was that the landlord only wanted 1000RMB a month, which made this place a fucking _steal_ , considering it was neatly placed in one of the most expensive districts of Guangzhou. Kris’ first-year roommate Lu Han managed to get a place in Yuexiu District, but he has to pay at least quadruple that amount just for a 2-room apartment with another guy. Kris is just living by himself.

His first and only visit before Kris had signed the papers and became the proud owner of a new apartment, he’d been slightly unsettled, to be honest. The landlord was a middle-aged woman, around his mother’s age, who’d seemed to jump at every little noise as she walked Kris around the rooms. He’d been a little too distracted at the time, busy going over every centimeter of the apartment, studying the cracks in the walls and weighing the cost-benefits of having an apartment with a slight breeze problem—but the idea of owning a place of his own at such low cost won out in the end.

He’d been bent over the kitchen counter, intent on reading through his contract when he’d felt that first shiver, a sixth sense that he rarely ever exercised tingling in his fingertips, of someone staring at him. Directly at him. His landlord was in the bathroom, he’d been well aware because she’d told him right before she’d ran for the toilet, so it couldn’t have been her—and he’d turned around to check anyway, but there was no one behind him.

Still, as he’d been signing his name, he couldn’t shake the feeling of someone’s eyes on him...or rather, his ass for some reason. It felt like every molecule in the room had been pulled into focus on his ass. Why his ass, of all things, he’ll never know; it’s not like he’s even got that great of an ass anyway.

But nothing, save for a slight brush of air against the seat of his pants, happened, and so he handed in his contract to his grateful landlord—who’d look almost in tears with joy. This should’ve set off warning bells if nothing else had, but Kris had been near blissful with his new place—and the deal was done.

**-**

**05.**  
(A month later, with his things finally moved and in place, Kris discovers the apartment actually came with a pre-existing roommate, already settled in and comfortable.

And dead, so to speak.

He really should’ve read the fine print.)

**-**

**030.**  
He pushes the door open with a yawn, stowing back his apartment keys into his jean pocket, and shuffles into the hallway space, barely lifting his Airs off the cement floor and onto the tiles of the apartment. His snapback lifts up off his head and floats a few inches away before spinning around in a perfect circle, while the door behind him gently closes shut. The backpack lazily hanging on his shoulder drops onto the ground and is pushed against the wall to make room.

“Hi—” A yawn escapes his mouth, cutting off his greeting, and Kris covers his mouth with a palm conscientiously and waits until he’s done before trying again. “Hi, Baek.”

His hair ruffles back a little under the light pressure of a hand patting him on the head. Kris kicks his shoes off unceremoniously, too tired to take proper care of his sneaks, and finds himself pushed towards the couch, the faint impression of warm hands ushering his back (and copping a quick feel which he lazily swats away at), steering him to the cushions. He lets himself be pushed down onto the couch, and obligingly swings up his legs and splays himself out over the entirety of the couch. He presses his face into the cushion corner of the couch arm, leaves just enough space for easy breathing, and lets himself relax finally.

He feels his matted hair being lightly run through, the ghosting of fingers through the gnarled locks of hair, and he smiles to himself, hidden by the cushions, slipping his eyes shut.

 

(Kris falls asleep within a few minutes. Baekhyun quirks the corner of his mouth when Kris’ breathing evens out, and lifts away his hand from his soft hair. He’s glad Kris is getting some sleep finally; the boy’d spent the whole weekend cramming for his back-to-back exams with minimal breaks in between for eating and bathroom breaks. If it weren’t for Baekhyun shoving a bowl of rice or noodles in his face every few hours, Kris probably would’ve collapsed while taking his exam.

He shakes his head in amused exasperation and gestures with a flick of his fingers, pulling the heap of blankets from Kris’ bedroom floor into the living room space, and sets about tucking the boy in.

Kris lets out an unflattering snore, just as Baekhyun leans over to smooth over the blanket under his tucked-in chin, and Baekhyun covers up his mouth out of habit to shield the loud laugh that forces its way through his lips. Kris just snorts, still lost in his sleep and rolls onto his back; it takes at least a cannon-sized explosion right in his eardrum to snap him awake, something Baekhyun is both grateful and despairing of. He’s managed to pull off many a prank on Kris’ person, thanks to his unshakeable slumber.

Baekhyun considers it for a moment, crossing his legs over and floating up into the air and hovering right above Kris’ slow-rising chest. It’s a perfect opportunity for him to draw a permanent marker moustache on Kris’ slacken face, and his fingers actually itch to grab for one of the markers laying around the apartment to act out the idea.

But, then Kris furrows his brows and mumbles under his breath, curling into himself from some unseen spectre, and Baekhyun softens, the mischievous smirk on his face mellowing into a fond smile.

Another time.)

**-**

**010.**  
Kris groans when the patch of sunlight dappling over the window-ledge stretches out and hits him right in the eyes, searing bright yellow behind his eyelids. He slaps a large palm over his eyes in self-defense, and splutters into full awareness when he feels the smear of something wet and slimy come into contact with his skin.

He shoots straight up from his mattress, confusion rapidly mutating into rage, and scrubs at his eyes with the back of his hand, desperately trying to wipe off whatever the fuck is on his face, and squints open an eye.

There’s shaving cream on his hand.

“ _Baekhyun, you fuckwad!_ ”

 

(Baekhyun floats right next to him, just a little over his head, laughing his head off, kicking his heels into the air. The furniture around him rattles slightly in similar manner.)

**-**

**03.**  
Kris doesn’t so much as invite his friend Yixing over to his new apartment as he drags the sleepy-eyed boy straight from the end of their Econometrics class over, after a hurried conversation over Yixing’s ‘supernatural abilities’.

“This is a first, Yifan, you’ve never invited me to your place before,” Yixing muses while Kris literally pulls him by the arm, running them both to the subway station. “I don’t think I’m ready for this step in our relationship yet.”

Kris looks at him exasperatedly, and Yixing responds back with a pointed look at his arm. Kris sighs and lets go of his death grip on the boy, but continues his pace down the stairs of the station.

“You gonna tell me why you’re herding me to your place any time soon or am I gonna have to make a discreet call to the police so they can find my body?” Yixing says after they get past the turnstiles and walk through the tunnels down to the platforms where the trains come into. Kris rolls his eyes and Yixing shrugs in defense. “Hey, don’t give me that look. You’re giving me nothing to work with here.”

“Do you remember the conversation we had in class, literally not even fifteen minutes ago?” Kris asks slowly, eyes staring pityingly at Yixing. “Please tell me your memory is not that bad.”

Yixing smiles slowly. “One, go suck my nuts. Two, don’t tell me you believe in ghosts, Yifan, I thought you were past the age of hiding under the covers whenever the shadows hit your bedroom closet the wrong way.”

Kris growls and jabs a finger at Yixing’s face. “One time! And I was right, okay, there _was_ something in my closet!”

“Yeah, your poor cat that’d been trapped in there for four hours,” Yixing says drily, grabbing the finger and pushing it out of his personal space. “It took your mother, what, like five days? To get the smell of cat pee out of the wood boards.” Kris scowls and folds in his arms.

“So, what, you’re telling me you can’t actually speak with spirits?”

“You’ve known me for fifteen years, Yifan. When was the last time I spoke to a spirit?” Yixing says, raising his eyebrows.

“Fuck you; what about the time you were talking to that turtle by Lau-gor’s store and said that you were communicating with a dead couple that was riding on its back?”

“I was _fourteen and quirky_ , Yifan, please. Also, you were pissing me off with your stupid dick jokes about my piano teacher and I wanted to mess with you.”

By this time, Kris’ hopes have already dropped somewhere in the sewer runoffs, and they’d already stepped into the subway train that was speeding its way to his station. Yixing just stands with him, sharing the handrail, serenely smiling at him while Kris internally crumbles.

He opens his mouth, tries to find the words to say something like ‘Just kidding,’ or ‘You thought I was serious? Hah, hah,’ but Yixing just blinks at him slowly, and Kris gives up. The problem with being friends with someone who’s known him from childhood means he really can’t talk shit and save himself from utter humiliation.

“Okay, whatever. Just...I don’t know, I’ll pay for your trip home. I’m sorry for wasting your time,” Kris says in the end, dropping his head into his hand to try and smother out the burning embarrassment that’s probably radiating from his cheeks.

Yixing snorts and nudges him gently in the soft belly. “You’re not even gonna invite me up for a drink? What kind of friend are you?”

Kris scowls again and throws his hands up, almost backhanding Yixing in the face and stumbling as the subway pulls into their station. He recovers, but not before he catches the smirk on Yixing’s face, and flushes, unable to regain a semblance of calm.

“Relax, my god, you are so high-strung these days,” Yixing says, grabbing onto Kris and pulling him out of the subway cart and into the station.

“Shut up! I’m going crazy, okay! Every single morning I wake up with some inane thing on my face or on my hand, I can’t eat without getting my chair pulled out from under me, the window fucking bangs against the frame every night even though I fucking _know_ I locked them shut, and I feel like someone’s fucking _staring_ at me all the time!”

They stop in the middle of the tunnel leading away from the subway platform, Kris bright red after his sudden outburst and Yixing staring at him seriously for the first time since they’d left the classroom. A couple of people bump into them, annoyed grandmothers and impatient businessmen, and Yixing quickly apologizes before dragging Kris over to the side where they wouldn’t be in the way.

“What? _What?_ ” Kris says, beyond ready to leave this conversation and go hide under his bed covers. Yixing levels an even gaze at him, brown eyes almost burning holes into his face.

“You’re serious,” Yixing states flatly after a moment. “This isn’t a joke.”

Kris stares at him like Yixing’s suddenly grown another head, eyes near bulging out of his sockets with incredulity. “Why would anyone fucking lie about this? What the fuck, Yixing?”

Yixing narrows his eyes. “Bring me to your apartment.”

**-**

Kris hesitantly opens the door, leaving the key in the lock to take out after Yixing enters, and waits for Yixing to go in first before following in. He takes his time toeing off his shoes and fusses over his backpack before meeting Yixing in the living room, where the boy stands in striped socks, staring off into space.

“Uh….” Kris waves a hand in front of Yixing’s face, but Yixing doesn’t respond. “You want water or something?”

“Yifan,” Yixing says airily, “why didn’t you tell me you had a roommate?”

Kris stares at him dumbfounded. “What the fuck?”

Yixing smiles suddenly, the dimple that half their graduating class swoons over coming out, and points at nothing in particular. “You know, your roommate?”

“What the fuck are you talking about right now?”

“You know when you asked if I could see spirits earlier and I, uh, didn’t explicitly, uh, _say_ I could see spirits?” Yixing says brightly. Kris feels a sudden growing urge to punch Yixing in the face rising.

“What are you saying right now? Treat me like I’m five, Yixing, I’ve had a very long day,” Kris says, almost calmly—if not for the wild look in his eyes.

“Alright. Yifan, I can see ghosts, and you have one living with you in this apartment,” Yixing says casually, like rattling off grocery items from a list or telling a friend about a mundane event.

“ _What._ ”

“He says his name is Baekhyun,” says Yixing, like he’s listening to one other half of a conversation that Kris isn’t privy to. “And that you should’ve told him you were bringing home booty calls so he could’ve cleared out.”

“Oh my god.”

“That’s nice that he thinks we’re fucking, I guess? Thank you, Baekhyun, but I’m not his type,” Yixing says kindly to thin air, ignoring Kris’ rapidly weakening constitution. “Also, I’ve seen his snotty crying face when he fell off his bike in third grade. Things like that really ruin the mystique for me.”

“Shut up, I scraped up half my leg,” Kris defends faintly. He thinks he’s probably swaying a little, and gives it about another minute or so before he actually keels over in a dead faint. Also, it feels like someone’s pushing him towards the couch, even though Yixing’s standing a good few feet away from him, and no one else is actually _here_ —

“Oh, your roommate is so nice, Yifan. Why didn’t you tell me you were feeling woozy?” Yixing chirps, the little fucking shit, still standing with his hands behind his back. Kris blinks, and the next moment finds himself comfortably seated on the couch which was _definitely_ at least three feet away from where he’d been.

“What the fuck?”

“You’ll have to excuse Yifan, Baekhyun, he’s really not the most verbose when he’s in shock,” Yixing says to the space next to Kris, and Kris snaps his head to the left. There’s _no one_ there, and he looks back up at Yixing, nerves increasingly frazzled.

“Yixing, seriously, what the fuck is going on?”

Yixing rolls his eyes and finally comes around and sits down next to Kris—but on his right. Kris leans away a little, suspicious and entirely ready to kick Yixing out in a few seconds if he doesn’t fucking stop messing around. Yixing ignores it and grabs for Kris’ hand.

“Uh, remember when you said you’re not my type? Because that still holds,” Kris says awkwardly, eyeing Yixing’s hands holding his palm hostage. Yixing clicks his tongue and pushes his head in annoyance before holding his hand again.

“Shut up, you ingrate. I haven’t actually done this in six years, okay, don’t make me lose my concentration,” Yixing mutters, eyes shut and intense expression in place. Kris just looks mystified and watches Yixing bemusedly, relaxing into the couch for the duration.

After a few moments, Yixing opens back up his eyes and sits back, visibly exhausted. “Ugh, remind me never to do that again. Unless you’re dying. Maybe give me a twenty-four warning before just so I can prep,” he whines, huffing.

Kris blinks in confusion and asks in amusement, feeling the slightest bit on steadier footing again, “Do what, exactly? What did you just do?”

Yixing lazily waves a hand at Kris’ left, and Kris obligingly turns his head to greet a smiling brunet sitting next to him, head leaned against a propped-up arm on the couch armrest. Kris doesn’t jump out of the couch, but only because Yixing managed to grab onto him and keep him in place before he had a chance to.

“Hi, Yifan. It’s nice to finally meet you,” says the boy with a decidedly devious twinkle in his eye. “I’m Baekhyun.”

 

 

 

 

 

**bonus scene**  
It’s a bit of strange sight, and Kris can’t help the wandering thought in the back of his mind if someone were to open the door on them and walk in to find Kris being jerked off by an invisible ghost. Well, it’d probably look like he was fucking himself, to be honest.

But Baekhyun’s hand is ever-slightly so warm from the friction against Kris’ flushed skin, the heat radiating off his body, and he can’t help biting back the moan that fills his throat because it feels so good. He can hear the quiet chuckle that spills from Baekhyun’s lips, and Kris rolls his eyes even as he jerks his hips up into Baekhyun’s hand.

“Shut up, oh my god, don’t be an ass when you’re touching me,” Kris says. Whines, really, but he’s sitting out here on the couch with his dick out in the open—he’s allowed.

He feels a sting on his earlobe, Baekhyun’s teeth lightly nipping him before swiping over the hurt with his tongue, and he makes a face. The hand on his dick starts slowing down, though, and Kris whines in earnest this time, gripping against the fabric of the couch because he’s still not comfortable with the idea of holding onto visibly nothing.

“Please don’t stop, please, _please_ , you little shit,” Kris begs, pride already fully traded in for the instant gratification of having his dick touched. 

He can feel Baekhyun huffing his laughter into the shell of his ear, and because Baekhyun is nothing if not the actual _biggest_ little shit there is on the other side of life, the hand slows down to almost a snail’s pace, trailing fingertips up and down the side of his length instead. Kris might actually cry from frustration. He wishes inanely for a moment that Yixing could be here so he could actually hear Baekhyun speak back to him.

Instead, he feels Baekhyun sucking kisses into the skin of his collarbone, and Kris drops his head back against the headrest of the couch, making it easier for Baekhyun to reach. He scrapes his fingers across the couch cushions before throwing caution to the wind and hesitantly bringing his hand up. Baekhyun obligingly grabs onto it and brings it to what feels like his cheek, and Kris strokes it gently, marveling not for the first time the feeling of warm soft skin under his fingertips even though there’s nothing _there_. He feels the edges of Baekhyun’s lips curl upward, and watches as his hand is dragged down to his dick and placed firmly against the length. Kris feels a laugh bubble out from his own chest.

“So, basically, you’re telling me you’re too lazy to give me a handjob and you just wanna watch me do it instead?” Baekhyun giggles and swoops in to kiss him squarely, biting on his bottom lip before pulling away with a smug air. Kris rolls his eyes again, but starts pulling at his dick, groaning as his palm rubs over the overly sensitive head and smears the leaking precome over to make the jerking smoother. Baekhyun starts scraping his teeth over the junction at the base of his neck, leaving sticky wet trails over his skin.

Kris shivers and pulls faster, rubbing his thumb over the head, and almost jumps out of his skin when he feels Baekhyun’s fingers curling around his balls. Baekhyun’s other hand runs itself through Kris’ hair, a perfunctory calming gesture, and Kris leans into his hand for a moment. He’s still jerking off, a touch faster than before as Baekhyun starts teasing at his balls.

“Can you, uh, right there, yeah, okay,” Kris garbles, pitch rising as Baekhyun adjusts his grip and adds his other hand on top of his dick, slick and tight. “ _Okay_ , yeah, that’s good.” Baekhyun draws him into another kiss, and Kris’ eyes flutter close. His hips jerk up again, just as Baekhyun twists his hand, and Kris breathes out quietly, shuddering, as the release hits him. His own hand stops, but Baekhyun keeps gently pulling him through the slowing contractions until Kris pushes his hand away.

He feels Baekhyun kiss him gently on the forehead, but Kris roughly grabs at Baekhyun’s waist, keeping his eyes closed, and urges him silently to rock against him. He feels Baekhyun snort, a sharp stream of air against his bangs, but Baekhyun eagerly humps into him, ignoring Kris’ slight hiss from the oversensitivity, and comes wetly on him. Kris huffs and draws Baekhyun’s head down in for another kiss, lazy and sweet, and they make out for a few minutes before the semen starts crusting uncomfortably on Kris’ belly and open hand.

He pulls away first and opens an eye to survey the damage. “Ugh, gross. Okay, get off me and get me a towel or something.” Baekhyun stays on top of him, weight steady on his thighs, and Kris wonders if Baekhyun didn’t hear him before a sopping wet towel smacks into his face.

“ _Fuck!_ You actual shit!”

**Author's Note:**

> written for [artistalks](artistalks.livejournal.com), the krisbaek fic exchange that ended up dying near the first few days of posting. ao3 mirror to [lj post](http://ventice.livejournal.com/8876.html).
> 
> this is literally the first time i managed to write a fic with a fic rating that wasn't g/pg, this is Huge. i set my sights on a goddamn handjob, and as painful as it was to write the whole thing, i got through and here i am today, no longer just a pg-fic writer. i have _depth_ now.
> 
> like most of the fics done for the exchanges i signed up for, this was written during krisis, and so, a lot of the feelings i had toward krisbaek as a pairing was just really hard to maintain. i also had like a job to do, so my attention span was just never focused fully on this piece, which is why everything is disjointed like how you see. i would've liked to back and develop their backstory further and the actual events bringing them up into a '''''relationship''''', but i'm just hella burned out at this point.


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